тωenty ƒears
by Aspect of One
Summary: A collection of oneshots each revolving around a fear. Chapter 1- Chronophobia; there was something Cato feared more than death and failure, and that was time. Time held the ability to take away everything he loved from him. And he could do nothing to defeat it.


_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games._

**There was something Cato feared more than death and failure, and that was time. Time held the ability to take away everything he loved from him. And he could do nothing to defeat it.**

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**chronophobia | fear of time**

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A flash of silver cleanly slices through the air, and the neck of a dummy. The dummy's head falls off, hitting the floor with a solid 'thud' and rolling away. The arm holding the sword falls back limply to the side. Its tip touches the floor. Shadowed blue eyes stare at the dummy before him.

_"I am pleased to announce that our selected tributes for the 74__th__ Hunger Games are Cato Traxis and Clove Macer!"_

Cato sucks in a deep breath. He holds the sword up again, ready to skewer another dummy. The Reaping is in six months. He and Clove will have to volunteer then. She's young, and so is he, but they have been training for the Hunger Games ever since they entered the academy a few years ago. The next six months would see them undergo simulations of the Hunger Games, even more rigorous training, memory training, everything to prepare them to bring glory to their district once again. This is what they wanted. Being chosen is what they promised to each other. Yet, he prays that on that day, someone else will volunteer in place of Clove. There is a small glimmer of hope in him that that will happen, though he hurriedly squashes it. There is no point in false hope.

He swings the sword, cutting off the dummy's head. Training has already officially ended for the day, but still he stays on. He passed it off as 'more training' earlier but truthfully, it is really to get his mind off of the announcement. The impending Reaping. The inevitable end that he or Clove will have to die to come back. Gritting his teeth, he flings the sword down to the floor and drops onto the floor, one hand raking through his blond hair. Fat load of use swinging a sword around is.

Tilting his head back, Cato stares up at the ceiling. Thunder rumbles outside. Six months, right? His hand goes up to his chest, feels his heart beating under it. Not even a year. His brows crease, and he pushes himself up, taking the sword along with him. He walks over to the rack, placing it back. What is he even doing here? Is he trying to prevent himself from facing reality? Reality has a way of slapping people in the face; he, of all people, should know that. Renewed determination sparks to life in him. He would spend all six months with Clove, making memories that he could bring with him into the arena, furthering an attachment that may likely get him killed in future.

"It's worth it," he mutters to himself, in a vain bid to console the dread and despair roiling inside him.

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Dimly, Cato wonders if this sense of absolute despair is becoming common for him. It is something that he has grown familiar with over the past six months. Each time he looks into the future, he turns his head away and pushes it to the back of his mind. For the first time in his life, he uses a calendar. It hurts to look at it daily. It only serves as a countdown. But it keeps him rooted in reality. In a way, it is his method of not completely turning a blind eye to the constant anxiety plaguing him.

He is strong. But he also fears.

The prick of pain on his finger as the Peacekeeper pierces it is barely felt. He duly proceeds with the protocol, drifting away to his section. Along the way, he gets different reactions. Some smile and give him the thumbs-up, others glare and look away. He entertains a thought that involves offering his position to them. Then, when he turns to his right, he sees a dark brown ponytail. Clove turns around at the same time, eyes meeting. She flashes him a confident smile, one which he returns, before striding off with her friends. His heart thrums away in his chest, warmth enveloping him at that smile. He forgets everything else for that brief moment.

The Reaping starts without hassle. Cato tunes out the escort until it is time for the tributes to be reaped. He turns to look at the female section directly across him. Clove is waiting there, eyes narrowed as she readies herself to volunteer. A rush of pride fills Cato. This is the girl he loves. She's courageous and strong, but not without her own fears, just like him. The name of the reaped girl is called. Clove springs out from her section, volunteering.

Should miracles exist, Cato will like very much to have time freeze at that moment, so he can take her and run away.

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Hope is such a cruel thing. It holds the ability to plunge even the strongest of persons down into the abyss of absolute anguish.

When Caesar announced that two tributes could win the Games so long as they are from the same district, Cato's and Clove's eyes met. Both grinned viciously. Neither of them needed to die. They could come back together.

That lasted only to the Feast though.

"Cato!" that hoarse scream is like a punch to his gut.

Tearing through the bushes, Cato bursts into the clearing. He hurls down his spear, skidding to a stop in front of Clove, and hits the ground, hard, on his knees. Gently, his arms fold around her to cradle her against his chest. Arrogant career begone. His love is dying in his arms. And he cannot do anything to stop it.

"Clove, Clove, stay with me," he whispers over and over, hand sweeping her bangs away from him.

She gives the barest of shakes with her head. The seconds tick by, each breath of her becoming weaker with it; he has no idea how to preserve this moment. He has no idea how to encase this in ice so that the unavoidable never happens.

He bends his head, gently pressing his lips against hers. It takes all of his willpower not to simply crush her lips with his. He does not want to cause her anymore pain. Parting their lips, Cato raises his head again. Clove's hand reaches up to caress his cheek and he catches it, pressing it against his cheek. She smiles, but it does not quite reach her eyes. Her dark eyes start to glaze over.

"I...love...you..." she manages to croak out.

"I love you too," he answers.

Her hand grows slack in his.

Cato stays there for who knows how long. Broken laughter wracks his entire frame as tears course down his cheeks. What a miserable display. Beneath his pain, something else brews. Something that he has never felt before; powerlessness.

He is strong. He can kill, and he has killed. But the sole thing he can never kill is time. Time held all the power over him, and he cannot even fight against it.

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**A/N: ****This will be a collection of oneshots, totaling at twenty chapters, revolving around the various characters of the Hunger Games. Each theme for a chapter is a fear. The same fear may appear twice but for different characters. I'll try to update this as regularly as possible.**

**In any case, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! **


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